


Nightmare on Elm Street

by tinyniel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Dream Sex, Dreams, First Kiss, First Time, Groping, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyniel/pseuds/tinyniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's brain is playing games with him at night. But is it doing it all on its own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare on Elm Street

Dean smiles in his sleep.

He rarely dreams anything these days. Ever since he discovered the perfect amount of alcohol to send him off to a dreamless sleep, without waking him up to a hangover, his sleeping hours have been blissfully stress-free.

Well, the few he gets anyway.

And if he ever screws up his dosage, what he ends up with is usually some flashback-from-hell related nightmare that eventually jerks him awake, clutching the gun he keeps under his pillow.

This dream is a very welcome change.

There are lips kissing him. He can't tell whose, but hell; with this kind of enthusiasm he's not about to complain. Soft, and eager, the lips move against his, a tongue darting in and out of his mouth, exploring, licking his lips between kisses.

And there are hands, running up and down his back. Through his hair. Stroking his cheek. Pinching his ass. Dean moans softly as one of the hands slide down his thigh, then back up along the inside, playing with the zipper on his jeans.  
"Don't stop there," he hears his dream-self mutter, and whoever it is obeys. The hand snaps the button open, unzips his pants and finds its way into his boxers. Dean moans again as it wraps around his dick, already hard.

Lips are on his again, and he kisses back, eager. Hungry. The hand between his legs starts moving, jerking him off, slow at first, then increasing the pace with every pump. The free hand slips behind his neck, fingers playing with his hair. Lips find his again, kiss him hungrily, then break away to trail his jaw-line with kisses, nibble at his earlobe, bite his neck and there's this odd sensation of something ... tickling?

Dean feels himself frown between his now steady moans. It must just be her hair, he decides, dismissing the strange feeling. He runs his hands into it, expecting it to be long.

It's not. It's short, unexpectedly short, and messy and familiar, somehow. The lips trail back up to his, and this time it hits him, in between the moans and the gasps for air and the passionate kisses. It's stubble!

What the hell kinda chick did he pick up?

He tries to wriggle free, suddenly desperate to see the face of his bed-mate. They draw back, their face swimming into focus. Dean catches the words "What's the matter? Don't you like it?" and a shockingly familiar pair of blue eyes, before he jerks awake.

Literally.

His dingy bed in his dingy motel room is empty, except for him. It's also drenched in a variety of bodily fluids. Sam is still asleep in the other bed, unaware of his brother's dream-gone-nightmare.

Dean barely registers any of these things. He's fighting a desperate battle to shake the image of those all too familiar blue eyes. That voice. There's no mistaking either of them.

Dean shakes himself, shuddering, trying to clear the remnants of the dream from his mind. But, annoyingly, it doesn't seem to help. He can still _feel_ it. Stubble tickling his chin. Stubble! _Those_ lips trailing his jaw, _that_ tongue in his mouth, those hands wrapped around his–

He shudders again, getting out of bed. His bottle of whiskey is still on the table from earlier, and he unscrews it, not bothering with a glass, and takes a big gulp. Another. Squeezes his eyes shut, trying to forget.

What the hell?

A few gulps of whiskey later, and he convinces himself that he feels better. Awake. Just a dream. A fucking bizarre dream, but then with the shit he goes through on a daily basis, that shouldn't surprise him. He turns to his bed, grimacing at the state of the sheets, and opts for the beat up sofa in the corner of the room. Taking another swig of whiskey, for good measure, he grabs his jacket from a chair and crawls up on the sofa, closing his eyes, determined to sleep. As an extra precaution, he plays back a few scenes from the last bit of porn he watched. Scenes with breasts in them. And women. And absolutely no stubble, or deep voices or blue, familiar eyes.

Eventually, he does slip into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

* *

When he wakes up, after what feels like five minutes, it's morning. Sam, the morning person from hell, is already up and awake, laptop open, coffee in hand. Dean sits up, rubbing his eyes and accepts the cup Sam hands him, taking a huge gulp of too hot coffee.

"You look like hell," Sam remarks.  
"Slept badly," Dean mutters, taking another deep sip of coffee. "What's your excuse?"  
Sam doesn't reply, but spins the laptop around.  
"Mysterious deaths," he says. "Five of them, in Butternut, Wisconsin."  
"Butternut? Really?"  
Dean stares at him, and Sam just shrugs.  
"Five men, all in their late 20ies. Three of them disappeared walking home from a bar, one was out fishing and one jogging. They all turned up dead the next day."  
"Could be coincidence," Dean remarks, finishing off his coffee.  
"Their hearts were all missing," Sam says, and Dean sighs.  
"OK, not coincidence this time either. Werewolf?"  
"Doesn't fit the lunar cycle."

Sam spins the computer back around, and starts typing, brow furrowing, nose crinkling the way it always does when he's thinking. Dean studies his face, trying to spot any sign of discomfort, but it's not there. Either his brother has completely forgotten Madison, or he's learned a thing or two from Dean about stowing away his emotions.

"Right then." Dean gets up, stretching and rubbing his stiff neck. "I'll pack the car."  
Sam nods, deep into his research.

 

It's only when Dean throws his bag into the trunk, and catches a glimpse of their emergency stock of holy oil, that his brain reminds him why he slept badly. It hits him so out of nowhere that he nearly drops the trunk-lid on his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head vigourously, as if the motion is going to shake the images away.

No such luck.

"You OK, man?"  
He startles at the sound of Sam's voice.  
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," he hears himself say, blinking to rid himself of the stars dancing in front of his eyes. "Just ... weird dream last night."  
"Clowns or midgets," Sam grins, and when Dean only stares back at him he shrugs and mutters something about 'wrong side of bed this morning'.

They stop for gas, and a breakfast to go, and then they're on the road. Sam's got his laptop out again, reading a mile long document he's downloaded from some weird site or another. He's got his 'don't bug me, I'm reading'-face on, so naturally Dean puts some AC/DC into the cassette player and starts singing along at the top of his voice.  
"Dean, do you mind?"  
"Not at all," Dean says, turning the music up louder.  
Sam doesn't reply, but jerks the cassette out of the player and chucks it into the back seat.  
Dean whistles. "Sorry, Samantha, I didn't realise it was that time of the month."

Sam ignores him, and he's left alone with his thoughts.

He tries to think of porn again. He tries to concentrate on the road, and the gorgeous sound his baby's engine makes when he accelerates. He weighs his chances of finding a decent bar in Butternut, and decides they're probably non existent.

And then, out of nowhere, there's a flashback. Of warm lips on his, and moans against his skin, and then of blue eyes and a deep voice and suddenly Sam's grabbing the wheel and yelling at him because apparently they're on the wrong side of the road.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean mutters, shaking himself and patting the Impala's dashboard. "I'm sorry, baby."  
"Maybe I should drive," Sam suggests.  
"NO. No, I'm good." Dean assures him. If he's not driving, he'll fall asleep. And if he falls asleep, he might _dream_.

He shakes himself again, and stuffs another favourite tape into the player. This time, Sam doesn't complain as he bellows along to Journey's 'End of the moment'.

* *

They arrive in Butternut at dawn, and check into the town's only motel.  
"One room, two beds," Dean says, before the manager has time to make the usual mistake. He just shrugs, handing Dean a key on a rabbits-foot keychain.  
"That better not be the real thing," Sam mutters behind him.

Dean throws himself down on the first bed, the springs complaining loudly.  
"Sammy. Breakfast," he orders.

Before Sam can protest, Dean is snoring. Sam looks at his brother, contemplating for a brief moment if he should try to get the keys off him, but decides against it.

Dean doesn't mean to fall asleep, but the 3 hours he's been running on since last night finally catch up with him. And, when he finds himself dreaming again, it's a much, much better scenario.

He's in the car, just him and his baby, on a long, seemingly endless stretch of road. The sun is low, and he's wearing a t-shirt and shades, his arm resting halfway out the open window, the sunlight warming his skin. There's nothing but desert, and sun, and road and mountains in the horizon. Just peace and quiet.

"Dean."  
He nearly swerves off the road.  
"Jesus, Cas!"  
"You seem nervous, Dean."  
"That's because you keep sneaking up on me!"

Castiel just tilts his head in that ridiculously way that makes him look like an owl in a trench-coat. Dean turns to snap something else at him, but the second he catches those blue eyes, his ability to speak falters.

_Oh crap._

"Are you ... are you actually here?" he manages, finally.  
"Yes." Castiel studies him.  
"Why?" Dean asks, afraid for a moment that he doesn't want to hear the answer.  
"Your case," the angel says, shifting his gaze from Dean to some unfixed spot beyond the hood of the car.  
"You know what it is?" Dean's glad to focus on business instead of ... whatever his brain is trying to do to him.  
"It's a god," Castiel says, not taking his eyes off the horizon.  
"Oh great," Dean mutters. "Those guys are always a bundle of laughs."  
"This is no laughing matter, Dean," Castiel says, missing his sarcasm by miles as usual.  
"Right," Dean nods. "So which one and how do we ice it?"  
"Mixcoatl."  
Dean snorts. "Sounds like something you take for a bad rash."  
"He's an Aztec god." The angel sounds annoyed. "He's the god of the hunt. Someone must be summoning him."  
"Great," Dean mutters. "Nutjobs with alters. My favourite".  
He looks sideways at Castiel.  
"And you had to jailbreak my dream to tell me this because?"

The angel turns to him, brow slightly furrowed in that look of confusion he's perfected over the months.  
"You were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."  
"Right, yeah. Thanks." Dean goes back to staring at the horizon.  
"You seem strained, Dean."  
He laughs.  
"Yeah, it's a sort of permanent state these days."  
"I can help," Castiel offers. "Help you take your mind off."  
Dean's brain can't help but scream out the undertones of that statement, and Dean shakes his head.  
"Nah, thanks Cas. Nothing a drink won't fix."

Castiel looks at him, and the look is so pained Dean is glad he's wearing sunglasses, and the angel can't see his reaction. Or, maybe he can. Cas is a bit of a Superman.

"There are other ways to relax, Dean," he says. "Better ways."  
Dean stifles a shudder.  
"Not in Butternut, Wisconsin," he jokes.  
As expected, the humour is lost on Castiel. The angel just leans closer, putting his hand on Dean's naked arm.

That's when Dean wakes up.

Sam, who's just thrown his jacket over a chair, stares at him.  
"Another bad dream?"  
"Nah, just–" Dean yawns, rubbing his eyes. "Just a rude awakening. Food?"

Sam points to a bag on the table, and Dean fishes out one of the Styrofoam containers, and a cup of coffee, and digs into the scrambled eggs and bacon. After about 7 mouthfuls, he can no longer ignore Sam, who's staring intently at him from behind his salad.  
"Yes, Doctor Phil?"  
"Dean, are you still having hell-flashbacks?"  
Dean snorts. "I wish."  
"Dean."  
It's Sam's "stop dicking around I'm being serious"-tone. Dean finishes off his breakfast, downs the last bit of coffee and looks up at his brother.  
"Don't worry about me, Sammy. I'm fine. I just need to adjust my medicine."

Sam looks about ready to launch into some deep, psychological analysis, but they're both interrupted by Castiel, who appears out of nowhere, as usual, two inches from Dean.  
"Cas."  
"Dean."  
Dean continues to stare at the angel, who just stares back, head tilted, until something suddenly dawns on him.  
"Personal space?"  
"Personal space," Dean nods, and Cas takes a step back, sending Dean a look he definitely doesn't want to decipher. Or maybe there's nothing to decipher. It's getting hard to tell reality from ... fantasy? Dreams? Hell, he doesn't really know anymore.

"Cas, what's up?"  
Sam's voice reminds Dean that he's awake this time, and he relaxes, ever so slightly.  
"Didn't Dean tell you?"  
"I was getting there," Dean says, and launches into the Aztec-god explanation.

* *

It's dark when Dean returns from the morgue, where he and Sam have confirmed that the victims hearts are very much missing. Along with other vital parts of them, leading the coroner to blame wild animals for the deaths. It's almost depressing how easy it is for people to find logical explanations for what they don't understand, just so they won't have to face the inexplicable.

Sam's off talking to the widow of victim number five, the jogger. Dean was supposed to come with, but then he made some joke about offering "comfort and consolation", and that was when Sam dropped him off, four blocks from the motel.

Just as well, Dean thinks, undoing his tie and throwing it onto the table. He's too tired for both comfort and consolation. He takes three large swigs of whiskey, and contemplates just collapsing on the bed. Then he remembers he going to need the suit tomorrow, so he strips down to his boxers before crawling under the motel's alarmingly orange sheets. He downs another couple of doses of whiskey, screws his eyes shut and gives his brain a little pep-talk.

_No funny business tonight._

"Dean."  
"Dammit, Cas!"

Dean sits up in bed, then realises he's not in bed. He's in a deck chair, on the shoreline of some lake or another. The scene reminds him strangely of another dream Cas poked into, and he shudders as he remembers the consequences of that one.  
"You're not in trouble, are you, Cas?"  
"No." The angel looks out over the water, not moving a muscle.  
"Then what now? Have you found Miticlawhatshisname?"  
"No."  
"Right." Dean feels like he's talking to a brick wall. "Well, I'm glad we had this conversation."

Castiel looks down at him, and Dean gets that all too familiar feeling of being x-rayed.  
"I'm here for you, Dean," the angel says.

Dean doesn't know how to respond to that, so he choses the standard reply; dismissal.  
"Well, I appreciate that, Cas, but I'd rather just sleep, you know?"  
"You are sleeping."  
Always with the tone of confusion. How long does it take a guy to grasp the concept of figurative speaking?

Castiel puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean flinches. The angel ignores him.  
"You worry too much, Dean," he says, and suddenly his voice is close, right by his ear. The angel's breath leaves goose-bumps on Dean's neck, tickling his skin.

"Comes with the job," Dean says, laughing a little to disguise how nervous he suddenly feels.  
"Maybe." He doesn't know where Castiel is, but his breath is still hot on Dean's neck, his hand still gripping Dean's shoulder.  
"But you worry about other things too. Things beyond your control. Things that don't matter."

Dean tries to answer, but then Castiel's other hand finds Dean's other shoulder, and the touch stops both Dean's mind and mouth.  
"Some things shouldn't be questioned," the angel murmurs, and Dean realises he right behind him. The hands resting on Dean's shoulders start rubbing them, and Dean submits, closing his eyes. A shoulder-rub isn't that bad, after all.

However, a moment later, his eyes fly open, as one of Castiel's hands slides down his chest, under his shirt, caressing his skin.  
"Cas, what the–"  
The angel hushes him, his long, strong fingers playing along Dean's skin. Dean stifles a moan.  
"Cas–"  
"Shhhhh," Castiel whispers, the sound and breath running down Dean's neck like water.

And fuck, it feels _good._

Castiel leans down, pulling the collar of Dean's shirt aside with his free hand, and places a light kiss on Dean's neck. Dean's breath hitches in his throat, and comes out as a moan. He can feel the angel smile against his neck, lips planting more kisses sporadically across his skin.

"Cas ... Cas, I'm not–" The words get jumbled up as Castiel starts undoing the buttons on Dean's shirt.  
"You're not what, Dean?"  
"I'm not gay," he splutters, half because Castiel's tongue has found his skin and it feels _incredible._

The angel laughs, actually _laughs._ That's got to be a first.

"Well, I'm not a man, Dean."  
"You're built like one," Dean remarks, and Cas smiles against his neck.  
"That doesn't seem to be bothering you much."

Dean has to admit he's got a point. He's well aware that he's on his way to pitching a tent, even though he's been trying to ignore it. But it's a fact that's getting harder and harder to hide. Literally.

Castiel opens the last button on his shirt, and suddenly the angel is kneeling in front of him, between his legs, kissing Dean's chest. Dean bites his lip, trying to stop another loud moan, as Castiel's lips kiss their way up to one of his nipples, sucking on it softly.  
"Dammit Cas," Dean mutters, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Castiel just chuckles, a low, happy sound, and licks his nipple some more.

Dean's hands are suddenly in Castiel's hair, and he pulls the angel up until they're face to face and inches apart. Castiel's blue eyes stare into Dean's green, and for once there isn't a hint of confusion in them.

Plenty of other emotions, though ...

Dean runs his thumb across Castiel's lower lip, and Cas lets him, waiting patiently. He plays with Cas' hair, twirling the short, dark locks around his fingers, marvelling at how right this all feels. Weird, yes. But right. Dean runs a finger along the stubble on Cas' chin. OK, so maybe not that scary after all.

"Dean?"  
The angel's voice shakes him out of his dawning realisation.  
"Yes," Dean manages, but his own voice is barely a whisper.  
"Personal space," Cas says, mimicking Dean's tone, and Dean hears himself laugh.  
"You know what, Cas? Screw personal space."

Dean closes the distance between their faces, meeting Castiel's lips with such force that it nearly knocks the angel to the ground. Cas responds instantly, lips eager and hungry, a hand sliding into Dean's hair, pulling his face closer, lips pressing hard against Dean's.

When Dean breaks away a minute later, it's only because he needs air. Castiel, equally out of breath, smiles at him and it's like a punch to the stomach. The good kind.

The angel leans in closer, lips finding Dean's neck again, and Dean moans, loudly this time. He can feel Cas smile against his neck.  
"Something funny, Cas?"  
"You," Castiel says, pulling away to look at him. "All of you humans and your ... labels."  
Dean doesn't know what to say, so he just gives Cas one of his crooked smiles.  
"So you're saying angels swing both ways?"

Castiel leans in close, so close that when he speaks again his lips touch Dean's.  
"I'm saying we're less concerned with these matters."

The angel runs his hand down Dean's chest, finding the button on his jeans. Dean shudders, mostly in anticipation, and Cas smiles.  
"Somewhere along the way you humans got the wrong idea," he mutters, hand playing with Dean's zipper. "It's not about having a name for everything. Putting it all in boxes. Deciding who's right and who's wrong."

His tongue finds Dean's lower lip, and before he can stop himself, Dean is moaning, loud and needy, into Cas' mouth. The angel kisses his lip, his cheek, finds his earlobe and sucks it.  
"Does this feel wrong to you?" he murmurs into Dean's ear.  
"No," Dean manages.  
"Then why fight it?"

Dean doesn't have an answer, and Castiel laughs quietly. In one swift motion Dean's jeans are open, the angels hand slipping into his boxers. He's careful, too careful, almost curious. Then, as if he's suddenly remembered what to do, he starts stroking Dean's dick, slowly, playfully.  
"Cas," Dean moans. "Fuck Cas!"

The angel just smiles against his neck, and kisses him, licks, nibbles at his skin, his hand slowly picking up speed.

Dean is muttering, swearing, moaning, making uncontrolled, incoherent noises.

"Dean."

"Dean."

Not Cas' voice. Dean wants to tell it to shut the fuck up, but the voice persists.

"DEAN!"

Dean's eyes fly open, blinking a few times before Sam swims into focus. He's standing next to his bed, looking somewhere between worried and amused.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean mutters, checking his watch. "It's the middle of the night."  
"It's 6.30," Sam points out.  
"Exactly. Middle of the night."

Sam grins. "What the hell were you dreaming about, anyway?"

Dean's throat closes in panic. Was he talking in his sleep? Fuck, what did he say?

"Dunno," he lies, yawning to disguise his panic. "Can't remember."  
"Must've been good," Sam winks, handing him a cup of coffee. "You were making a LOT of happy-noises."

Dean says a silent prayer that he's lying on his side, still covered up, because he's suddenly aware that unlike the last time, he's still pitching a tent.  
"Yeah? Then maybe I should go back to sleep."  
"No time," Sammy says. "I found the altar."  
"Really?" Dean sits up, dream and boner momentarily forgotten. "Where?"  
"Old farm outside of town. I'll tell fill you in on the way there."  
* *

Dean studies his dad's old knife, wiping the last bit of blood off on his jeans. Alter broken, god disposed of, another job well done.

Sammy's asleep inside, knocked out by the painkillers he took after Dean patched up the nasty gash on his arm. Dean got of light this time, just a few cuts and bruises.

He tucks the knife into its place in the trunk, and drops the lid shut.  
"Well done."  
He spins to look at Castiel.  
"You did good," the angel says.  
"Yeah well-" Dean just shrugs off the compliment, busying himself with picking at dry stain of blood on his jacket. Anything to not have to look at the angel.

"Is something wrong?" Castiel is closer now, and Dean musters up the courage to look at him. He regrets it immediately.  
"No, no no," he assures Cas, his eyes searching for something to look at that isn't the angels blue, blue eyes.

"Dean."  
He recognises that tone. That's the tone Cas uses when he's sick of Dean bullshitting him.  
"Long day," Dean tries, looking at the motel, the passing traffic, the neon sign.

Anything but Castiel.

The angel doesn't say anything, and even though Dean's not really looking at him, he can feel that head-tilted look of confusion burning holes in him.  
"Look, I'd better get inside," he starts, but then Castiel is right there in front of him and Dean can't help but look up. Green eyes meet blue ones, and suddenly Dean knows that Cas knows.

"You ... those dreams," Dean struggles for words.  
"They weren't dreams," Castiel says, his voice quiet.  
"You were ... that was-"  
"Yes." The angel looks embarrassed.  
"Why?" Dean manages.

Castiel doesn't answer. Instead, he closes the distance between their bodies, slips a hand around Dean's waist, pulls Dean into him. Dean hears himself groan, but that's all he has time for before a pair of hungry lips find his.

Dean doesn't wonder this time. He doesn't fight it, he doesn't think. He just kisses back with all the force he can manage. Castiel's other hand slides around his thigh, grabbing his buttock and pulling their bodies closer, his crotch slamming against Dean's thigh.  
"Guess that explains the 'why'", Dean teases, but the angel just silences him with another deep, greedy kiss.

Dean's hands, which he hasn't quite known what to do with, slide around Castiel's waist, under his trench-coat, and under his jacket. Dean tugs Cas' shirt out of his pants, and runs his hand along the small of his back, causing Castiel to moan into his mouth, all urgent and hot, and Dean can't help but smile at the reaction.

Castiel pushes him down onto the boot of the car, with a force that has Dean briefly worried about leaving a dent, before Cas' lips are on his neck again, kissing and licking and biting. The angel's hands find their way to the button on his jeans, and snaps it open before Dean has time to stop him.  
"Hey Cas, wait, stop," he breathes.  
The angel looks up, confused, hurt.  
"I thought you wanted this?"  
"I do," Dean assures him. "But not in a brightly lit parking lot. That's kind of ... um, illegal."

Castiel steps back, seemingly lost in thought for a second, and then tries to put two fingers on Dean's forehead. Dean grabs his wrist just in time.  
"I've got a much better idea."  
* *

This room is even uglier than the one he's sharing with Sam. But it's empty, and it's not in any way adjacent to the one Sam's in and that's really all that matters to Dean right now. He turns to say something to Cas, but before he can figure out what he's caught in another deep, bruising kiss.  
"Damn Cas, how long has your dry-spell been," Dean teases.  
"Too long," Cas groans against his lips. "I've wanted this for ... too long."  
"You've wanted this? Me?" Dean chuckles. "What the hell would anyone want with me?"  
"Maybe if you let people in every once in a while, you'd find out."

Touchè, Dean thinks, and because he doesn't want to admit it he kisses Castiel instead, undoing his tie in the process, ripping open the angel's shirt, buttons flying everywhere.  
"Guess I owe you a new one," Dean grins, but Cas looks at him in a way that clearly states that lost buttons are the least of his worries.

His jeans are gone before he fully knows what happened. His boxers too, and his t-shirt, all in a rumpled pile, impressively far from the bed. Cas pushes him down onto the mattress, the springs of the bed complaining loudly, and Dean momentarily worries if the bed is going to be able to take this. But then Cas is looming over him, straddling him, pulling off the remains of his shirt, and Dean forgets everything else.

He studies the angel's chest, surprised to find faint, pink lines in a familiar pattern.

Scars.

Dean lifts his hand, runs a finger along the not-quite-healed skin, and Castiel looks down.  
"Van Nuys?" Dean asks, and Cas nods.  
"I didn't think you could scar," Dean mutters, hand covering the faint traces of the Enochian spell, and suddenly he feels bad because this is his fault.  
"I can do a lot of things," Castiel whispers, and the moment of regret is broken as the angel's body covers his, lips finding Dean's with unbelievable amounts of desire.

Dean pulls the angel closer, so close he can barely breathe, and he doesn't care about the strange feeling of a flat chest against his own, the short hair his hands are running through. And the feel of stubble burning against his skin, that is just downright delicious!

Castiel kisses, and kisses and kisses Dean, deep and hungry, like it's the only thing he's ever wanted. Like it's the only thing he's ever going to want. Dean lets him, his lips parting, his tongue sparring with Cas', their breaths and moans mingling.

Dean shifts, slipping his hand between them, trailing down Castiel's chest, and the angel moans loudly as Dean undoes his pants, struggles to pull them down with one hand. Cas lends a hand, and suddenly the angel is naked too, flesh touching flesh everywhere, Cas' erection pressing against Dean's thigh.

There's nothing strange about this anymore, nothing weird. It just feels right. The feel of warm, sweaty skin on skin, strong, coarse hands grasping at his arms, his hair, his hips. Stubble burning against Dean's chin, the deep groans of Castiel's voice, rumbling against lips.

Dean slips his hand further down, fingers wrapping around Castiel's dick, and Cas moans deeply, urgently into his mouth.  
"Dean."

Almost instantly, there are fingers wrapping around Dean's dick as well, and he groans in surprise. Cas strokes him slowly, too slowly, almost teasing him, and Dean decides to return the favour, earning himself an almost angry look from the blue eyes above him.

"You see, you tease?" Dean winks. "Not that funny, is it?"

Castiel looks for a moment like he wants to punch him, but then his lips curl into a smile that's so dirty, so full of desire, so full of lust and so full of something else Dean doesn't want to think about right now that it wipes the smugness right off Dean's face.

Holy. Shit.

And Castiel seems to understand Dean's point, because he picks up the pace, Dean matching him, green eyes locked onto blue ones. Cas reaches his thumb up, circling the head of Dean's cock, and Dean moans in surprise.  
"Jesus, Cas! Where the hell did you learn that?"

Castiel just chuckles quietly, dipping his head to bite at Dean's neck, tongue darting out every now and then to trace his skin, and Dean looses all focus. He tries to keep up as the angel jerks him off faster, tries to return the favour, but he can't. All he can do is clutch at Castiel's hair with his free hand, moaning and cursing into Cas' shoulder.

"Fuck yeah, like that Cas, right there, yes, yes, please yes."

His mouth spills out words without Dean's consent, but he doesn't care because he's close now and he's pretty sure it's never felt like this before. It's never been this good, he's never been this fucking strung, this fucking ready, and when he comes it's with a scream that he's pretty sure they can hear in the diner across the road.

Cas is panting against his neck, and Dean knows he's completely forgotten that this was a two-way deal. But he can't help it, all he can do is writhe and moan as he comes hard, striping his stomach.

"Cas," he breathes, because it's all he can do, all he can manage. The angel lifts his head, lips finding Dean's, the kiss reminding him that this isn't over. This isn't over by a mile.

The angel kisses him deeply, then pulls away, blue eyes catching his with a look of promise that almost has Dean ready to go again right away. Castiel's lips trail down his chest, tongue exploring every inch of skin it can find, licking up every drop of cum.  
"Holy hell, Cas," Dean croaks as Castiel's lips kiss the head of his cock, tongue licking him clean.  
Cas chuckles, pleased, and just carries on, curiously, tasting every bit of skin he can find.

Dean can't help himself. He fists a hand into Castiel's hair, pulls the angel up by his messy locks and drags him into a deep, bruising kiss. Cas groans against his lips, surprised, and Dean laughs, feeling powerful.  
"Your turn," he mutters into the stubble on Castiel's cheek, and with a strength he never knew he had, he flips Cas over onto his back, pinning his arms down.

"Dean?"

There's surprise in Cas' tone. Like he wasn't expecting this. Like everything they've been doing so far they've been doing for Cas' sake, not Dean's, and Dean has to smile. He leans down, the tip of his tongue finding Castiel's neck, and the sound the angel makes is barely human.

"Dean," Cas groans, struggling to free his hands. And, since he's an angel, it doesn't take much before his arms are pinned around Dean, squeezing him so hard he can barely breathe. Cas leans up, bites at Dean's lip, pulls him down, almost by his teeth, into another deep, desperate kiss that leaves Dean dizzy and out of breath.

"Lie back," Dean mutters against Cas' mouth, trailing his lips down his chin, along Cas' throat, down to his chest. He finds one of Cas' nipples, sucks it into his mouth, licking it and relishing the spluttering noises Castiel makes as a result.

"Dean!"

It's just his name, but there is so much more in it. Demand, greed, impatience. Dean chuckles against Cas' chest, spends a little more time on his nipple because Cas' obviously likes it and because it's also obviously driving him crazy.

"For fuck's sake, Dean," Cas moans, and Dean looks up in surprise, grinning. Did Castiel just swear? Clearly, he's doing something right.

His lips trail down further, stopping briefly to kiss the angel's naval, dipping his tongue into it.

"Dean," Cas hisses, and there's an undertone to that hiss that makes Dean realise there's only so far he can tease him before the angel is going to take control again. And being Dean, and Dean doesn't back down from a challenge, he decides to test just how much further he can take it, lips stopping right at the edge of Castiel's hip. Dean kisses the inside of Cas' thigh, his hipbone, pressing his stubbled cheek into the angel's skin, running his fingers through the wiry hair.

"Dean, please!"

It's less of a request, more of an order, and Dean bites back a smile.

"What do you want, Cas?"

The angel makes a confused noise, and Dean looks up, his eyes catching Castiel's blurred, blue ones and he knows that look. Even on a man he knows that look.

"Dean."

It's more pleading this time, and Dean suspects that Castiel knows what he wants, he just doesn't know how to ask for it. Or maybe he's still too innocent, in some ways.

No time like the present to learn, Dean thinks

"C'mon Cas, tell me what you want," Dean murmurs, lips trailing up the inside of Castiel's thigh.  
"Dean, I want- I want- Dean!"

There's frustration in his voice, and Dean almost feels sorry for him. Almost. He decides to help the angel a little, and lifts his head slightly, pressing his lips softly against the head of Castiel's dick.

Cas' entire body jerks, and for a moment Dean worries that he's going to come right there and then.  
"Is this what you want, Cas?" Dean mutters, and Cas groans out a loud, desperate 'yes!'.  
"Then just say the words," Dean teases, pulling his lips away slightly and taking quiet pleasure in the desperate groan that escapes Cas' lips.  
"Dean, please!"  
"Please what?"  
"Please, just-"  
"Just?"

Cas lets out an annoyed groan.  
"Just fucking suck it already," he finally exclaims, and Dean grins.  
"I thought you'd never ask."

And Dean does, running his tongue up along Cas' dick before putting his lips on it again. Cas is moaning, babbling incoherently, and Dean can't help but smile. He swallows Cas down, runs the tip of his tongue up and down the length of Cas' dick.  
"You taste so fucking good, Cas," he says, and he doesn't know where that came from, only that he means it. Cas hisses in response, hand fisting into Dean's hair, tugging, and Dean just lets him, keeps sucking, licking and kissing at Castiel's dick.

Castiel is writhing, moaning, whimpering, clutching at the bedspread, Dean's hair, anything, his mouth choking out Dean's name over and over, like a broken record, and Dean loves it. He swirls his tongue around the head of Cas' dick, licks along the skin, does everything he can think of to make Cas moan louder.

And whatever he does, it works.

"Dean!"

A hand fists into his hair, and Dean is pulled up, easily, like he weighs nothing, lips crushed against the angel's again.  
"Let me finish," Dean protests into the kiss, but Castiel refuses to let him go, pinning him to his chest with all of his angelic strength.

Dean wriggles an arm free, trailing his fingers down Castiel's now sweaty sides, slipping between their bodies, wrapping it around Cas' dick. The angel moans into his mouth, hands slipping down Dean's back, nails digging into his buttocks.

"Dean, Dean, please Dean," Cas mutters, and Dean shushes him, stroking his dick slowly.  
"Faster," Cas demands, and Dean obeys. He lowers his head to bite and kiss Cas' neck, Dean's hand picking up pace, jerking Cas off fast now, his hand getting slick with the pre-come seeping out of the angel.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Castiel croaks, pants into his shoulder. "Dean, I'm-"

And then Cas' entire body jerks and spasms as the angel comes, and comes and comes, all over Dean's hand and both their stomachs, muttering words in Dean's ear Dean is sure are neither English nor Enochian.  
"Dean," Cas groans, gripping his hair, his arm, his thigh, gripping so hard it hurts, so hard it's probably going to bruise. "Dean."  
"Shhh, I've got you," Dean mutters automatically, stupidly against Cas' skin, stroking him carefully now, coaxing every last bit of the orgasm out of him.

Dean dips down, kissing Cas' chest, sucking his nipples, tongue tracing the skin of his belly, licking him clean. Cas just lies back, still panting hard, and when Dean comes back up Cas pulls him into a kiss that's just warm, and soft and adoring. Dean lets him, lets Cas pull him into his arms, fingers tracing the damp skin on Dean's back.

"Where the hell did all that come from?" Dean mutters against Cas' chest, and the question is just as much for himself.  
"I don't know," Cas mutters, voce raspy. "It just did, somewhere along the way."

Dean lifts his head, catches the angel's blue eyes.  
"So you've been feeling this way for what, months?"  
Cas bites his lip, giving Dean that look he reserves for when he knows he's done something stupid.  
"Oh Cas," Dean mutters. "You should have-"

He stops, because he's well aware why Cas hasn't.

"I did," Cas says, long fingers lifting his chin, thumb stroking along Dean's lip. "I just needed to figure out how."  
Dean smiles. "Well, you're a sneaky son of a bitch, I'll give you that."  
"I like to think I've learned from the best," Cas says, smiling.

Dean looks up at the angel, his angel, and closes the distance between their faces.  
"Oh just you wait," he mutters against Castiel's lips, savouring the way Cas' breath speeds up, the way his eyes widen.

"I have so much more to teach you."

\- end-

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first slash-fic I ever wrote. And the first fic I wrote that had porn in it. And my first SPN-fic. So, first times all around.
> 
> Also @ http://deancastiel.livejournal.com/3557659.html


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